Soapbox

                                                It's easy to forget what legs are for,
what sinew and muscle and bone are for
until yours grow molten
and every fiber in them speaks to you,
until 'up' becomes the biggest word in the English language.
It's easy to forget the life force of a hundred millions tons of rock,
when after all- it's just been sitting there for the last epoch or so-
until you have the time to notice how it's skin changes
from sandy feet to its bald, granite head.

It's hard to know what wet really feels like until
you wander for hours
inside a cloud:
wear it, breathe it in, feel it slip between your toes,
and expell it again through your own pores.

It's easy to forget, as we sit, locked up tight 
in our offices and living rooms, encased in our car-cocoons,
what the world is supposed to smell like:
damp, and stone, grass, and bone, tang of fir and cedar height,
musk of death, and flash of life.
We seal our doors and windows tight wear chemical masks of simulated reality.
We log and mine, drill and frack our wild places
and then name air fresheners after them.

As we pace within the lines we draw for ourselves,
set our fence posts and rake our lives into tidy rows
we forget the splendor of disorder,
the true peace of letting go.

It's easy to forget what the earth actually sounds like  
when all we know is the argument of traffic,
shriek of synthetic televised laughter,
click of locking doors, humming pump of artificial air.
It's easy not to recall the chuckle of stream over rocks,
piping of the Carolina wren from across the hollow,
the scrape of a footstep through leaf litter,
cathedral silence of the hemlock giants. 
We forget about the sound of the wind
telling the secrets of its journey to the patient trees,
so that on winter nights they might dream of far-away places.

We forget, in our blinking digital age, staring at LCD images of water and sky
what light is supposed to look like-
forget the way it slants through branches in the early morning,
illuminates each fold and undulation of the mountains at dusk,
the infinite varieties of purple it paints on the underside of an evening thunderhead
or the way it glitters off restless water like God tossing a thousand flashing coins down to earth.

It's impossible to know what dawn really means until you stand above everything else
so there's nothing but you and the sky and the edge of the world
and watch the sun come up, and wonder how it is
you ever slept through such ear-splitting beauty.

It's impossible to know how many colors there are until you stand on the mountain
and watch a thousand of them thicken and drip and fold in on themselves
as the sun goes down.
It's easy to forget you even have a heart
until the perfection of a single drop of water
tears yours from your body and offers it, laughing, to the four winds.

The gift of the mountain is a new understanding of these old things,
a re-acquaintance with the primal force of your own pulse,
a remembering what life is supposed to be.

Because it's esy to think that mankind is the master of our universe
after all we go Roving on Mars, baby!
but we are masters of our own little stinking caves, nothing more.
It's easy to forget, from the bowels of cities where the lights never go out
and the sky is a pale, silent thing
what the universe really feels like-
what it means to throw your head back and hear the roar
of a carpet of stars and galaxies both black and bright, 
so massive it could crush you,
so vast you could just spread your arms and float away.
 

   Despite its being a long-held tradition, there was some debate about whether Ted and I would go to the State Fair this year, You've seen one deep-fried twinkie/pickle/cheesecake, you've seen them all being the general argument against. In the end, the Sky Glider decided it for me (aided, it must be confessed, by the thought of all the yard work that I should probably do were I to stay home) and so yesterday afternoon, off we went.

   "Amy, where are you?" was the voice mail message I left for a friend who said she was working a booth near the big Cardinal entrance to the fairgrounds. While waiting for her to reply, we decided to lok at the exhibit of quilts, cakes and other crafts, that    building being near her general area. I was hoping to see one of the cross-stitch pieces I had mounted and framed for people who claimed to be entering them in a fair competition but didn't see any cross-stitch work at all.
    I pointed out a rather nice Tole painting in dark colors of a boat on an evening lake.
    "That is nice" Ted agreed "but I never would have put that awful green mat on it."
I turned to look at him in amazement.
    "Well there are some nice blue-greens in the background there, but that bright kelly green mat just doesn't work" he insisted.
    "I don't think I have ever loved you more than I do at this moment" I said with the beginning of a tear in my eye. For of course, he was exactly right.
     Amy called back and explained where her booth after we'd already proceeded to the mock civil war encampment so and we agreed we'd stop and see her on our way home. 
     We decided to proceed backward from our usual pattern and work our way to the other end of the fair and then ride the Sky Glider back rather than starting off with a ride. Passing a small stage we heard a band being introduced whose lead singer used to be the singer for McGuffey Lane, a group any college student in Athens in the late 70's and early 80's surely heard many times. We spent a few happy minutes listening to them and singing along with "Long Time Loving You" and remembering a long time ago.

     State Fair food has, I believe, "jumped the shark" so long ago that it's not possible for anything to surprise me any more. (I did see a booth advertizing "Aspirin Snacks"  which I thought sounded useful if unappealing and wondered if the aspirin at the fair are deep-friend. I also noticed that the booth featuring cheeseburgers that use Krispy Kreme doughnuts for a bun assured us "Fresh, never Frozen". This was was a real relief. Because a glazed-doughnut-cheeseburger with frozen meat would just be icky, don't you agree?) Without too much fuss we settled on chicken sandwiches and lemon shake-ups, which we took into the nearly empty Stackhouse Coliseum to eat in it's cool depths while we waited for the next round of horse competitions to start.
    I find something very zen in watching the big John Deere zamboni as it circles the arena, erasing hoof prints, smoothing out rough spots, bringing order to chaos.
    The evening's program was all draft horses, which I enjoy and Ted particularly so, growing up with his grandfathers' horses working the farm. (It seemed that we were a day late to see the jousting exhibition, though. Too bad. Nothing livens up a fair like a good joust.) Can I just say that I am impressed by anyone with the wherewithall to even own 6 draft horses these days, let alone to show them. What kind of money must that take, for the food, the tack and wagon, and transporting all that to a fair! I hope there are always people willing to invest in these lovely, stately creatures, even if they're just for show and not working teams any longer.
    The competition was made more entertaining by a certain 3 or 4 year old young lady behind us and her take on the proceedings. "Why aren't their seat belts on?" she inquired of the wagon drivers, which her mother agreed would be something any sensible driver would do. She also thought it scandalous that people were still walking in and out through the west gate when the announcer had just told them not to because teams would be comeing in (a child after my own heart).
    But my favorite comment came at the end of the first competition when she asked excitedly "Oh- what's that princess gonna do?" when a girl walked out to present the ribbons. Dressed in a short sun dress and cowboy boots, she didn't fit my idea of a 'princess' but the little girl had spied the small tiara and sash reading "Percheron Queen" and knew royalty when she saw it.

    To assuage the disappointment of a friend to whom I had mentioned that I never do this, we went to see the butter cow next. Ted bought an ice cream cone while I contemplated the 1,800 pounds of butter used to sculpt a cow with a birthday hat and "Happy birthday Ohio" cake. I tried briefly to lament all the hungry people who could have used that butter, but really, I don't think many children go to bed hungry in Ohio for lack of butter. Still, it seems a bit silly.

   In order to get from the dairy barn to the Natural Resources area we had to cut through the midway. I usually try to avoid this area like the plague, and our brief trip reminded me of why. It's like accidently getting off the freeway at the wrong exit and finding yourself in a sketchy part of town. The folks running the basic games remind me of street preachers eager to convince us all to come to Jesus, and the guys with the "Guess your weight" booths are like so many meth addicts looking to score. Plus it smells really skeevy over there.
    We made it through the midway without being mugged and walked through the Natural Resources area. (I did not know that there are parks where you can rent a teepee to camp in!) I was entranced by a little fox who regarded me intensely in the twilight from behind a log. All huge eyes, twitching ears and graceful little black feet- he looked like a  fairy spirit.

    "Shall we just make plans to not do this next year?" Ted suggested as we walked to the Sky Glider for a bird's-eye view on our way to the exit. I shurgged.
    "I don't know. I didn't have a bad time" I said. "It's just… the same old thing." 
    A woman and young girl got into a car before us, and as it took off, the child little wriggled with excitement and delight.
    That's what's missing I thought. That's why the fair isn't fun any more. When the kids were little, when we put them on the little dragon roller coaster and they giggled and waved at us all the way around, when we trudged together up those steps and held them close down the giant slide, felt their awe as they beheld the huge, sweet-smelling cows standing placidly next to their doe-eyed calves… the fair was fun, because we saw it through the eyes of someone who found it easy to see joy and wonder in the world.
     Several times during our ride, the Glider stopped, as it does from time to time. The third time I leaned forward and saw, standing below and right in front of me– my own brother, eating a french fry.
    "Andrew! Hey, Andrew!!" He looked up, surprised. And there with him were Kelly, Grace and Emily. There was a time when we would all have been at the Fair together, our children holding hands and dashing through the crowds. Now, I never even know when they come to town.
     "Aunt Tracy!" Grace called. "Hi! This is Joel!"
      "Hi Joel- it's nice to almost meet you!" I called back to her fiancee, whom I only know from Facebook. And then the Sky Glider started up again and our hello waves were goodbye waves.
      Part of our State Fair tradition h always involved getting a funnel cake as we're leaving. As I"ve gotten older I've needed to skip lunch and not buy any snacks at the Fair to try to allow for all those calories, but it was just a once-a-year indulgence, so why not? Tonight neither one of us thought we would even want more than just a bite or two of a funnel cake, so I got a belgian waffle instead. Not quite as good, but between the two of us old folks, we were able to eat the whole thing.
     "Amy, where are you?" I left on her answering machine when we still couldn't find her at the booth near the entrance, and with that bit of symetry to the day, we decided to leave.

     Maybe next year we could borrow somebody's children to take with us to the fair.

   You know that moment when you get something from a bin at the grocery store with your mind somewhere else, and when you step back to your cart, for a second or two you just look at it, trying to process what is wrong with this picture…
    ...Balsamic vinegar… avacado..huh?…. broccoli… wait- I don't even eat frozen shrimp…
    And then your brain catches up-   Oh! this isn't my cart!
   Whew. And you step to the other side of the aisle, where your own cart of processed, preserved crap waits, throw in a bunch of bananas so it doesn't look so nutritionally bankrupt in comparison- and move on.

   That's kind of how it feels sometimes when I see myself. I'm putting on my face lotion and I see all those white hairs growing next to my widow's peak and for just an instand I am confused.
I think     ….? What is that doing there? 
I notice the slight creping of the skin on my forearms as I'm buckling on my watch and something says-
     What the hell- this isn't my arm. I don't have old lady skin!!
    And then I remember, Oh, yeah, I do. Now.

   I think it's the hands that bother me the most, probably because I see them every day, watch them work the mat cutter, the computer keyboard.  I never had a lot, but I had nice hands: well proportioned, rather graceful, neat, if unadorned.
    Now railroad trestle-tendons bridge slightly sunken valleys of flesh, and veins, like restless blue worms writhe and hump across the landscape of what I once considered my best feature.
   Ah, my slender, clever hands. They wrote love letters, composed music, signed my marriage license and soothed the sweaty brows of my children. Planted and harvested so much of what my life has grown to be. Now the occasionally twingeing joints and two weird brown spots remind me that while I may have felt the same for the last 25 years…. I am not.
    And I feel…. a bit used. Like thrift store goods: still functional, but worn, faded, my newness and much of my value gone. OK, vintage, maybe, but more than a little worse for the wear. Today only: all orange tag items only $2! 
    Well OK then. That's how it is.

   So I try to walk the vanity tight-rope: fuss just enough to not be 'letting myself go" but not so much that I look desperate and pathetic. I pamper my skin with nice lotions- but I refuse to spend over $20 for a bottle. I put a colored rinse on my hair from time to time- but only just a touch, and use hand weights to keep from getting those old lady flappy arms any sooner than I must. Try to dress in clothes that are reasonably bright and attractive but don't make me look like I think I"m still 22.

     Because no matter how much I wish it wasn't, this IS my shopping cart now: varicose veins, crows feet and all. Best to just throw in a bag of salad greens and move on.

My life is out of control.

   Maybe not "meth addict driving backward on the freeway" out of control, but things just keep slipping away from me.
    I go to bed thinking It's ok, I'll get all that done tomorrow  and then tomorrow eludes me, like a wet, naked squealing toddler on a cookie high, leaving me running in circles.I wake up and realize-
It's Thursday already!
It's autumn already?
I'm 50 already!!
What the hell have I been doing all week/summer/life?

My life is out of control.
   My dog is 3 years old and he still digs in the yard, eats socks and goes absolutely apeshit when he sees that ceramic cat in the neighbor's yard. My husband says that I don't use the right voice with him, but I have used all the voices I've got.

My life is out of control.
    The weeds are taking over, and believe me, the ones in my head are just as difficult to uproot as the nettles and dandelions that spring up where tomatoes are supposed to be.
    And I never should have planted that tree so close to the house. Every year I look at it and say "Yeah, I"d better cut it down now, while it's still small enough to handle…" but it shades the porch so nicely… and oops- it's not small any more.
    Sometimes at night I lie awake and swear I can hear it growing, roots pressing against the foundation, seeking a way inside, waiting to strangle us in our sleep. I"m pretty sure the sole option left at this point is to sell the house fast to someone who doesn't realize that the only thing that is in control around here is that tree.
    Or pray for a convenient tornado.
    Except I haven't really prayed in over a year… unless all those muttered Oh shit's and Please don't let me screw this up's count… but I don't think they do count, because I'm still completely out of control.

    I never instituted a family game night. I meant to- on TV all the really good parents have Family Game night. And I never even forced my kids to play soccer! I know, right?! Everyone knows that kids are supposed to play soccer! Years from now my children will tell their therapists about this, and they will cluck their tongues in sympathy and increase their visits to twice a week.

My life is out of control.
    The Check Engine light has been on for over a year and I"m missing 2 hubcaps with no idea when or how I lost them.
    My coupons are all expired, lists largely unfollowed. I have a box full of brishes but never learned to paint, bought yarn but still can't crochet, because I just can't seem to find the time, or the willpower to do what it would take.
    I am a walking bundle of neuroses wrapped in the very best of intentions… which is a direct road to hell, so I hear.

Just completely out of control.
    Sometimes I have these intense dreams that seem like messages from the universe telling me what I should do with my life… and I always end up doing the exact opposite, because I hate anyone telling me what to do, even the universe!
    When I was 13 I realized that I was already too old to be a child prodigy at anything, which was really demotivating. Maybe that's when it all started to slip out of control.
    It gets to the point that every time the telephone rings I expect disaster: peer at the Caller ID and expect it to read "Traffic Accident" or "Unemployment" or "Broken Heart" instead of just "Out of Area". So many people who are so much more in control than i am get caught in such serious shit-storms that I just don't trust my own dry feet. So I watch the clouds suspiciously, even on sunny days, expect a good soaking any minute because my umbrella is always at home.

    They say that the longer the big fault lines go without a major quake, the more stress accumulates and the bigger will be the one that finally hits. I feel that the more days that slip by in dull, functional normalcy, the worse the disaster that's waiting for me…
…and I know it's waiting, because of course I have no emergency kit of bottled water, energy bars and duct tape, either in my basement or in my head! Surely the windmills of the Gods are grinding up a heap of trouble for the contented and the commonplace.

    I know that I'm skidding through life on black ice, and sometimes it's an amazing ride but I can't even enjoy it; see, I never got around to learning how to steer into a skid. So I slip and slide and spin through life,
    completely out of control.